


Good Pet

by OpalizedBone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Lena "Tracer" Oxton, Canon Compliant, Choking, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, F/F, Hair-pulling, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Widowmaker, Vaginal Fingering, dom widowmaker, sub tracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalizedBone/pseuds/OpalizedBone
Summary: Tracer gets seperated from her teammates chasing after Widowmaker, but ends up thoroughly enjoying what happens next.





	Good Pet

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon-compliant, meaning Widowmaker is a fuckin bitch, but she does get full, enthusiastic, and explicit consent (but there's no aftercare, so be warned)

Tracer flees into the abandoned hotel, arms pumping, chest burning, heels pounding the ground. Her accelerator is dark and silent on her chest, reminding her that she's out of charges--it was functionally useless beyond keeping her in the present until it recharged. Her teammates were on the other side of the town; she was alone, and it was her fault.

 _Stupid!_ She berates herself, whipping her head around for an exit. Stupid of her to chase after Widowmaker, stupid of her to get separated from her allies, stupid of her to let her accelerator run out of charge. Bad decision after bad decision led to to here, running from Widowmaker into a dark building with little exits.

The time-jumper turns left and right as she runs, through doorways, up stairs, down hallways, trying desperately to lose her pursuer. Finally, she finds herself in an unlocked room, where she catapults over the bed and to the window, wrenching open the blinds to search for a way out--but the rooftops are all too far down, too far away, for her to reach without the help of her accelerator, still silent in her chest.

"Dammit!" she breathes, ducking into the corner. Maybe Widowmaker hadn't seen her run in here, maybe she could wait until her accelerator charged, maybe she could still escape--

"Well, well, chérie," a low voice purrs from the doorway. "Not your smartest choice."

Peeking over the edge of the bedside table, Tracer sees the tell-tale red glow of Widowmaker's goggles. How could she forget Widowmaker had heat-vision goggles? Tracer curses to herself, unbelieving of her own stupidity.

"Come out now, chérie, and you may yet live," Widowmaker says, lowering her rifle. Tracer's eyes narrow, but she doesn't have much choice--she'd rather die on her feet than crouching in the corner, anyways.

Cautiously, Tracer stands up and paces out into the open in front of the bed, her pistols aimed towards Widowmaker's feet. Widowmaker looks her up and down, her own weapon pointed away from her, and Tracer feels her cheeks heat up.

"What're you ogglin at?" Tracer snips defensively, strangely feeling the need to cover herself. Widowmaker appraises her for a few more tense moments before slowly, deliberately, setting her rifle down in the corner next to the door. Confused, Tracer lowers her pistols more, until they're pointed towards the floor at her feet.

"Listen carefully, chérie," Widowmaker begins, and something in her voice has Tracer holding her breath in anticipation. "I am giving you two choices. You may either walk out this door, and back to your teammates--I will not stop you--or," and here she pauses, tracing her gaze up and down Tracer's body in such a way that the smaller woman's face burns, "You can put your silly little guns away, turn around, and _bend over._ "

Tracer stands still as her brain tries to comprehend what is being said to her. She could leave, unharmed, go back to her allies--or. Her entire body heats up as she finally pieces together what is being offered--the lingering gazes, the seemingly-purposeful missed shots, the command now given to her--and she lets out a tiny, undignified whimper, completely unbidden.

Even her ears feel hot now as she slowly, slowly, allows her pistols to flip back into their wrist holsters. She hesitates, then, licks her lips, glances up. Widowmaker stares back, waiting for her to make her decision.

Realistically, she shouldn't even be entertaining the thought. She should walk right out that door without a backwards glance, should rejoin her teammates who were probably all worried about her. Her gaze shifts back to the woman before her, settles on her lips for a moment before tracing the ridiculously tantalizing collar of her uniform down, between her lovely breasts, to where it ends just above her belly button. Tracer swallows, remembering the nights she's spent alone, fingers slipping through her hot slick to thoughts of her head between the assassin's thighs, and knows her decision was made long ago.

Tracer turns around, faces the bed, tries not to think of consequences.

She bends over, placing her palms flat on the bed, holding her breath with anticipation. She thinks she can hear a soft chuckle behind her.

Widowmaker watches the whole ordeal with a small smile on her perfect lips. Silently, she walks up behind Tracer, placing a hand on her back, rewarded with a small gasp. She runs her touch lightly up Tracer's spine, over the bumps of her chronal accelerator, until she can bury her long fingers in that mop of brown hair. Gently, she combs through the locks for a moment, feeling Tracer relax beneath her, before grabbing a handful tightly and yanking her head back to make eye contact with her.

Tracer hisses at the sudden pain, embarrassed to feel herself get wet. She keeps her gaze locked with the assassin in the dim light of the room--her golden eyes shine in the dark, like a cat's, and she wonders if that's part of Talon's conditioning--as she waits eagerly for whatever is to come next.

"Are you sure about this, chérie?" Widowmaker kisses her on the cheek lightly, before taking her earlobe between sharp teeth and pulling. "I will not be nice. I will hurt you."

Tracer shudders, lets a little whine slip free, and closes her eyes.

"I know," Tracer breathes. "I want you to."

Widowmaker pauses. She did not expect that response. Part of her still waits for Tracer to realize what she was getting herself into and flee. Growling, Widowmaker pushes Tracer down onto her elbows, her ass in the air, one hand still tangled in soft brown hair as she slots their hips together and grinds.

"Last chance," Widowmaker offers. "I will not stop."

"Don't stop, then," Tracer manages to get out, her head forced back unnaturally by the fingers in her hair. "I don't want you to stop." She tries to grind back, to show that she wants this, has wanted this since Widowmaker first called her 'chérie.' Widowmaker's free hand goes to her hip, holding in a bruising grip, and Tracer whines, trying to hold her ass up for the woman behind her. The hand in her hair disappears, and she tries to hold back her noise of disappointment before it relocates to her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoves her upper body down onto the mattress.

Tracer knows she's wet, probably wetter than she's been in a long time, and grinds back against Widowmaker, hoping to convince her to move along.

"You seem rather desperate," Widowmaker points out, her voice--usually so cool and disinterested--now showing the slightest hint of strain. "Pathetic."

Tracer whimpers, her burning face pushed into the mattress, her hands clinging to the blanket. She wants this, oh, she wants this, and she doesn't care what Widowmaker thinks of her.

"Enough."

Suddenly, the cool body at her back is gone, and she turns to see Widowmaker removing her suit, slipping her arms free and pulling the whole thing down in one go. Her boots are gone, discarded behind her, and Tracer wonders absently when they came off, but her focus is on Widowmaker's body, on those perky breasts tipped with navy nipples, on the patch of dark, well-trimmed hair between her legs. She realizes that she's making a keening noise in her throat, and shuts up quickly.

Widowmaker takes a seat on the edge of the bed and points at the floor between her feet.

"Kneel."

Tracer nearly trips over herself in her hurry to comply, stripping her bomber jacket and gloves off on the way. She's kneeling between Widowmaker's legs in seconds, looking up at her face and reaching for her thighs. Widowmaker's eyes flash, and she grips Tracer's jaw with fingers cold and hard as iron.

"You are not to touch me unless I say so," Widowmaker breathes, voice steely. Tracer swallows, nods as best she can with her chin in the assassin's grip, and retracts her hands to rest them on her thighs. Widowmaker stares at her for a moment longer before the hand on her jaw slides up into her hair, tangling hard and yanking her forward.

Tracer struggles to get her bearings as she's forced between Widowmaker's thighs, the grip in her hair a delightful distraction. With the assassin's body blocking the dim light from the window, it's too dark to really see what's happening, and she tries to find her way around by feel. Short, bristly hairs meet her lips and nose, and she slides down, breathing in the sweet, sharp scent of Widowmaker's musk, wetness meeting her chin first, then her lips.

Widowmaker lets out a tiny sigh above her as Tracer sticks out her tongue, flicking through the slick folds until she finds her hard clit. Tracer can't help but feel a little proud at the abundant wetness she finds, that the assassin is this aroused for her. Her taste is a strange blend of natural salt and a metallic sweetness--Tracer wonders just how much of Widowmaker is affected by Talon's conditioning. She licks at the hard bud of Widowmaker's clit, feeling her thighs twitch on either side of her face.

Moving down, Tracer laps greedily at the source of the slick, is rewarded by the hand in her hair tightening and the sound of a small moan from above. She presses closer, thrusting her tongue in as far as she can, nuzzling her nose against Widowmaker's clit. A sharper noise from above is heard, and she does it again, and again, until Widowmaker yanks her head up towards her clit.

"Suck," Widowmaker commands, her voice breathless, and Tracer does, wrapping her lips around the aching bud and flicking the tip of her tongue over it. Widowmaker's thighs close on her face, but she doesn't relent, closing her eyes in concentration as she works her over. Unconsciously, her own hand is inching between her thighs, where she's so hot and wet that she's soaked through the material of her leggings.

Suddenly, Widowmaker is pulling her head away, glaring at her, skin shining with a layer of perspiration, breathing quickened slightly, and Tracer gulps, licks her lips to gather up the wetness there.

"Did I say you could touch yourself?" Widowmaker hisses, and Tracer feels her heart lurch at the dark quality of her voice, jerking her hand away from her core. She shakes her head minutely, as best she can with Widowmaker's fingers still knotted in her hair. "Answer me."

"No," Tracer gasps, clenching her hands into fists on her knees. Widowmaker's eyes narrow.

"No, what?"

"No...ma'am?" Tracer tries, ignoring how the word sends another lick of flame to her burning core. Widowmaker watches her for a moment longer before nodding slightly, yanking her head back between her thighs.

"Good, pet," Widowmaker breathes, and Tracer whimpers excitedly into her folds at the name. "Now finish me off."

Tracer works twice as hard as before, flicking her tongue over Widowmaker's clit, sucking her lips, delving inside her pussy. She notices that, while the hand in her hair and the thighs on either side of her face are cold, Widowmaker's core is almost warm. She moans whenever the hold in her hair tightens.

Widowmaker's close, Tracer can tell. The fingers in her hair are pulling almost too roughly now, slender hips bucking up to meet her hot mouth. It's all Tracer can do to stop from touching herself as she leans up and captures Widowmaker's clit in her mouth, sucking hard and lapping at it. The assassin tenses up, and then new slick meets Tracer's chin as she climaxes.

Tracer looks up at Widowmaker's face as she cums, watching how her fiery eyes are shut tight and her mouth is hanging open. The only sounds she makes is a sigh and a breathy exclamation of what could be Tracer's name. The hand in her hair loosens, pets gently in an almost-apology, as Widowmaker relaxes. Tracer cleans her up and sits back, unsure of what to do, hoping that the favor will be returned and that she won't be left to her own devices.

It takes Widowmaker only a minute to recover, opening her eyes to stare down at Tracer, who remains kneeling obediently on the floor. Her eyes are traveling over Widowmaker's form, trying to memorize every detail.

"Stand up." The command has Tracer scrambling to her feet, desperate to obey. Widowmaker follows suit, standing a full five inches taller than Tracer, even when barefoot, and surprises the younger girl by taking her mouth in a fierce kiss. A small, surprised sound escapes Tracer's mouth, but she doesn't object, instead wrapping her hands around Widowmaker's waist and returning the kiss enthusiastically. Widowmaker lets her for the moment, feeling generous after her orgasm, and backs the time-jumper up against the wall.

"Hands on the wall," Widowmaker growls against her lips, and Tracer obeys instantly, her hands splaying against the wallpaper in a desperate attempt to please the other woman. Widowmaker continues their kiss, biting her lower lip harshly, sucking until Tracer whines for release. She moves to her neck, biting nearly hard enough to break skin before licking over the marks, sucking to make sure they stay visible for days to come. She pulls back to admire her handiwork, taking in how red Tracer's face is, how heavy her breathing has become.

Tracer whimpers pathetically as Widowmaker pins her to the wall with a hand at her throat, the other sliding down to clutch at her hip through her leggings.

"Will I find you wet for me?" Widowmaker snarls, her fingers tightening on Tracer's throat to prevent an answer. "Will I find you dripping?"

 _God, yes,_ Tracer thinks, her eyes rolling back slightly. She nods as best she can, loving the pain on her throat, the burn of her lungs begging for air.

Widowmaker lets go of her throat just as she palms Tracer through her pants, letting her suck in a breath of air. She smirks at how wet the material is, digging her fingers into the sopping warmth.

"What a slut," she breathes, hitching her hand higher to dive beneath the fabric. Tracer lets out a strangled groan as cool fingers find her heat, clutching desperately at the wall. The hand on her neck tightens as two long fingers plunge inside easily. She so wet, sloppily wet, she could take more, she wants more, and she begs with her eyes well enough that Widowmaker adds a third finger, pumping them inside quickly, roughly, her palm pressed against her clit.

Tracer makes breathy, wheezing sounds as she's fucked hard against the wall, but Widowmaker is careful to let her breathe at regular enough intervals that she's never truly in danger. Her palm grinds into her clit with every thrust, and it's so good. Her eyes are closed, unable to remain open as the pleasure mounts embarrassingly quickly.

"Are you going to cum for me?" Widowmaker hisses. "So soon? You really are a whore, cumming for your enemy with three fingers in your drooling cunt and one hand at your throat."

Widowmaker angles her hand just right, pushing one thigh between Tracer's to help her thrust harder, and God, Tracer has never been wetter. She forgets her orders and grabs the arm at her throat as the pleasure spikes, digging her nails into Widowmaker's skin as she climaxes so soon, but so good. Her cunt spasms, clenches down on her fingers, holding her in place, as her hips buck erratically, riding out the intense waves of pleasure. The hand at her throat loosens, allows her to gasp in much needed air, and she practically screams out the end of her climax.

Finally, Tracer relaxes enough for Widowmaker to retract her hand, licking some of the abundant slick off her skin before wiping the rest on the comforter. Tracer slides down the wall to rest limply on the floor. By the time she has the strength to look up again, Widowmaker is fully dressed, appearing as perfect as she always does, and Tracer is still slumped on the floor, her leggings ruined, her jacket and gloves discarded next to the bed.

"Very, very good, chérie," Widowmaker praises her, and Tracer feels a warmth in her chest at the praise. "Next time you are looking for a little fun, remember me, yes?"

Tracer nods stupidly, and then Widowmaker is gone, the only evidence of their tryst the ruined mess of Tracer's pants.


End file.
